𝗔𝗰𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀

Fourteen.

Rebecca Caruso

Home should promote the feeling of tranquility, blanketed love, and a safe place for whoever dwells within. Unfortunately, I can't say I relate.

Ever since my mother's death, the vastness of being alone haunts me  — the creaking hardwood floors, the stained window vibrations, even the squealing steam radiators. Attuning silence, although welcoming during stressful times, drives my rationality into dark places.

I try to fill the void by immersing myself in throwback songs, baking a Neopolitan pizza for Christopher (though I end up eating most of it), listening to Nicholas Pileggi's 'Wiseguy' on audiobook, and yelling at a true-crime documentary or two. Yet, nothing can divert my mind from the relentless introspection.

"You'll just have to casually hang out with Marco for a few weeks, being nothing more than a pair of ears...."

"Christopher and I will comb through every bit of evidence and make sure the Montanari's get what they fucking deserve..."

Glancing at the clock on the stovetop, it was only 2:25 in the afternoon — time dragged dreadfully.

I pulled my phone from the kitchen's electrical-tape-held charger, checking the unread text sent to Christopher hours ago: Congrats on the promotion! I'm making your fav for lunch, hoping to pop a bottle when you get in. LMK when you're near.

Still no response. Not even a 'thanks babe,' —fuck, even a "read" notification would have sufficed.

This. This is what makes me momentarily not love him. The overbearing selfishness, the lack of true partnership—companionship. 

But enough of the damning silence. I craved unbiased clarity, devoted acknowledgment, and someone to aimlessly vent to.

Growing up with a cop father didn't help my social life, except for Rafael, I had no one. Most of the time, I didn't mind it, but during circumstances like these, I felt lonely.

Shaking my head, I replaced that thought with another. Although unconventional and wrong in every way, the strong, cold comfort of a well-rounded drink helped settle down pending nerves; and honestly, at this moment, I could really use one.

I never classified myself as an alcoholic; perhaps it's the recent stress or the lingering resentment. Regardless, there were no decent bars in the Avondale area, and Christopher played the guilt game every time I had any hard stuff at home; so I did what any normal Chicagoan would do — I hopped on the CTA and headed downtown.

The hour-long train commute from Avondale to downtown Chicago partially fulfilled my palliative needs; a relaxing combination of train turbulence and noise proved soothing. You see all sorts of people on the train, each with their story, making my troubles seem less dramatic...

An elderly couple discussed prescriptions they couldn't afford. A mom of four struggled to keep her toddlers still. Two high-class businessmen discussed financial turnovers and deadlines. A homeless man struggled to keep balance with his shopping cart.

Chicago is a much more vibrant metropolis than New York City, Dallas, and LA combined; we just don't publicize all the camaraderie that comes along with it. Inequality, segregation, poverty — things most people glance away from; the very things that pull me closer.

I chose to be an officer not because of my father, but my pride for the people of this city — my yearning to oblige them. Unfortunately, our municipality doesn't care about its individuals; they only strive for the 3P's: Profit, Politics, and Publications. Something I learned the hard way...